


Second Star

by elon



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergent, Captain America - Freeform, Dimension Travel, Earth 199999, Fighting, Multiple Earths, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, battle of earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elon/pseuds/elon
Summary: 2023. Steve Rogers faces off in one final battle, only to fall to Thanos in his final breaths.Or was that really so?The third snap — the most powerful snap, arguably — was one in 14 million. Curiously so, it not only saved that Earth, but those from other Earths as well.Earth-199999 is about to be graced with a second “America’s Ass.”
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

  1. Earth-7173. Battle of Earth.

Dust rises, fills soldiers’ lungs, and those who haven’t yet spilled their final drops of blood stagger amidst the bloodshed, resilient but fading.

But not Rogers. Never the Golden Boy, who stands and fights for those who have fallen. He faces Thanos as war cries and shrieks fill the beleaguered atmosphere, and for a moment, nothing else matters. Not the dying men and women starved of salvation, not the fleets of alien ships and their loud churning dipping below the clouds, not even the quiet tears and defeated crawls executed by his closest friends, those who were once sworn as Earth’s defenders — nothing.

Steve‘s jaw stays locked as he pads toward his opponent, hammer swinging and crackling with excitement. The storm clouds rumble from above, hungry for release, to finally strike down and sear through flesh and nerves in a scalding flash; Thor had teased the storm, but was grounded with the devastating pound of a purple fist — wherein Steve inherited the torch, thunder and all. But the angry Titan sends Rogers to his knees with the meager flick of his mighty blade, and, thank the Gods, misses the carotid artery as the metal is graced with warm scarlet.

The captain falls, dirt latching onto his torn skin, and red decorates his neck like a piece of jewelry. And, as if being knighted, Thanos approaches the kneeling man, blade poised. Retribution is a dish served with no garnish, and knowing this, the Golden Boy shuts his tired eyes, ready to sleep.

A crackle ripples through Steve’s figure, and for a moment, he feels as if he is no longer there. Not on the blood-soaked dirt, not on Earth, not in the galaxy. In fact, he isn’t, but the feeling lingers no longer than a second, and when he opens his eyes...

He is kneeling on the same patch of land in the same exact position as he once was. But it wasn’t really the same, was it? No... Thanos has fled. Fled? Where has the red soil gone? The ships and the soldiers and the screams of the fallen?

Is this death?

He feels his neck. It’s warm, wet. The gash is still there, though shallow, yet likely in need of attention nonetheless. And as he surveys the abandoned land around himself further, there seems to be the exact opposite of attention. Rogers stands, feels the air leave his lungs in a hurry, and it feels like his first asthma attack those years ago — a time he wished to return to, when the extent of the war never reached literal alien fleets and premeditated planet-destroying.

It takes him an hour and a half staggering aimlessly east to finally reach the inhabited land surrounding the battlefield, which seemed irreparable and hence unpopulated. And as he reaches the nearest door — one belonging to a rather impressive home on the close outskirts of the city — he knocks with hesitance, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the black encrusting the tips of his fingers. When that door opens just a few moments later, the disgruntled gasp coming from the fifty-something woman standing before him is enough to sway him.

Is it me? Steve ponders. Is it the blood I’ve come to accessorize? Who’s to say, really, but he’s too hoarse to attempt asking, and the aforementioned woman is already dialing 9-11. By the time a first responder answers her call, Steve is floored on her doorstep, fast asleep.


	2. 1.

Steve Rogers wakes with no pain, and for the first time in years, he feels alive.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The heart monitor sings in syncopation with the Brooklyn boy’s heartbeat. He sees the IVs beside him, hovering by his bedside like thin men concerned for his health. And in the corner, scrawling words onto papers scattered across the sterile countertop, is a man less thin, yet likely just as concerned. Steve tries to pick his head up, to get a better look, but the gash on his neck argues otherwise and wins the fight. His head falls back onto the pillow, defeated.

The doctor turns and approaches. He has kind features and a slow gait — a rare sight to someone in Steve’s profession, but pleasant. And it’s then the doctor slides a tray above Steve’s lap and tilts his bed up, speaking clearly as he does so.

“Hello, Mr. Rogers,” says the doctor, sliding a few pieces of paper onto the tray, as well as a pen. His voice is tinted with a foreign accent — German? Swedish? “My name is Doctor Lane. Personally, I’d say it’s an honor to meet you... although I never expected it to be in this way.” He chuckles a bit and points to the top of the first paper in the small stack. “I don’t expect you to be audible in this stage of your recovery, but assuming your fingers still function as they should, I’m going to need you to fill out this paperwork. I do hope it will also explain why you are in my care today.”

Steve purses his lips, wondering the same thing.

Regardless, he begins filling out the paperwork and smiles a bit when he scribbles in his date of birth. Oh, how time flies. They grow up so fast.

He goes through the paperwork fairly quickly, but stops at emergency contacts. Thankfully, Lane notices.

“You’re dead, Rogers,” he comments, “which is why I suspect you may have no contacts. And I’m no storyteller, but since this is the first time in years anybody has seen you alive and in youthful condition... I suppose I may have to fill you in and determine where you lie in this mess. So raise one finger to answer yes to my questions, and two to answer no. Are you ready?”

Steve sets the pen down and raises one finger.

“Good. Do you recall what is commonly referred to as ‘The Blip’?”

Steve raises one finger.

“Did you fight in what is now known as the Battle of Earth?”

Again, one finger.

“Did you win?”

A pause. It all comes flooding back: the blood, the cries, his dying friends,  Thanos . He fights the tears, the urge to rip out his IVs and upturn the desk, and raises two fingers. Lane swallows.

“Then I suppose we do have an issue.”

Yeah, no shit.

“I concede you’re from... elsewhere. And, likewise, you are unwed and unbeknownst to others here. Do you believe the same?”

One finger. Lane thinks for a long time. Steve watches as his eyes dart around the room.

He finally asks, “If we were to exhume the body resting beneath your current grave, do you believe it would be present?”

Steve lifts no fingers then, and it says just enough.

—

The paperwork gets completed not too long after; Lane allowed Steve to list down him and his wife, stating that they would try to help the captain through this endeavor. The doctor also described the outcome of the war, much to Steve’s wonder, although he only conveyed the outline of the battle as an uninformed spectator of the event.

“Captain.” It felt as if it no longer applied subsequent to Steve’s failure. It felt as if he’d destroyed an entire Earth because of his own negligence. That was not a true factor, naturally... but no matter how many times he told himself that, it never seemed true.

It was getting late by the time they had all the medical records in order. By then, Lane was doing some research while Steve sat there quietly.

“Your estate is currently idle,” he says, breaking the minutes of silence they had built. “No next of kin, and both you and your wife died a year ago.”

Wife?

He continues, “Your will states that after five years of collecting interest, your money should be divided and donated to a couple of charities based in New York. A probate attorney in Queens has been assigned with organizing your estate in such fashion, but if you would like, I can contact them to work something out.”

Steve picks up the pen and conveys a scribbling motion to Lane. The doctor stands and delivers him a sheet of printer paper, wherein Steve scrawls:

Why are you helping me?

Of course. Lane smiles upon reading the message. “My job is to help others — and I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to help rehabilitate THE Captain America. I get paid for this regardless.”

For the first time that night, Steve chuckles halfheartedly. Or tries to. He writes again:

Call tomorrow.

Lane nods. The clock hits 11 pm. Within twenty minutes, everything gets settled and the doctor goes home.

Steve can’t sleep for the first few hours. With every shut of his eye, he only sees dying faces. No crying, he tells himself. That world was past saving. But there’s nothing more he can reassure himself of before exhaustion hits him like a 200-pound brick.

And when he does sleep, he dreams of what had happened just before the doctor left: He’d stood, sore, as his legs yearned to collapse under the sudden weight. And as he was led to the small bathroom within his hospital room, he remembers the first thing he’d seen — his reflection. Steve Rogers, the fallen soldier, the son of a bitch who let a planet die, who had four long scars decorating his face and an unkempt, blood-crusted beard to show for it. He wakes up after that, shaking, and never returns to his slumber.

Nurses come in starting at 8 am. Things are checked, tampered with, and Rogers feels as if he’s floating there, a beacon of non-existence when clearly he was occupying space. Lane enters an hour later, and when the nurses gradually file out, he addresses Steve with a lighthearted smile.

“Get excited: You’ve been scheduled to meet with your attorney today at four-thirty — she insisted today. Seemed quite confounded when I told him you were under my care.”

Steve nods carefully, feeling the stitches on his neck pull, and, damn it, it still hurts. Hell, it hurts to eat — hence the feeding tubes latched to his body — but he digresses and does the same scribbling motion he had done before. A paper and pen arrive on his tray just as quick, and Steve then writes:

When do you think I’ll be released?

Lane is hesitant to answer. He looks between the paper and Steve, then to the IVs, and then to the clipboard by the door. “Er, there’s no way of REALLY knowing. Everybody heals at different speeds, but if I had to guess... six to ten weeks?”

Steve looks at him incredulously. He continues, “I know, I know, but your body has suffered through more than you may suspect.“

The captain scribbles a hasty description of how quickly his body heals under the influence of the Super Serum, to which Lane nods and says, “If that’s the case, I am not the one to determine how long this all may take, but rather when you are fit to be pardoned.“

That’s that. Steve can’t argue that his condition isn’t that bad when he’s still unable to speak, so he sets the pen down in defeat, ready to play the waiting game. And play he does, because the time flies fast — so fast that his attorney is now sitting in the chair beside his bed, ogling at him with disbelief and a few documents in-hand. She introduces herself to the men and wastes no time getting into questioning, respectively as puzzled as they come, and Lane mostly speaks on behalf of Steve.

The contents of their discussion expressed a more serious sentiment, in which the brunette attorney tried working out the logistics of nullifying the previous Steve’s estate tranches. She’d informed the wounded Rogers that the money would be redirected back to him as soon as time would allow, granting him access to the old bank account. Not only that, but all preexisting properties — which included a home in Brooklyn and all the contents within it — would remain in his possession, so long as he can reach out to applicable utility providers. Convenient, yet time-consuming.

“All in a good day’s work,” Lane says after the affair, which had occupied quite some time. The attorney had left Steve with relevant paperwork, all of which was put aside for safekeeping until Steve could vocally advocate for himself. It was all drudgery atop drudgery, but at least he had somewhere to go when he recovered.

Steve is helped up by a nurse as the night creeps in and led into the bathroom, having been provoked to finally take a legitimate shower. A bandage stretches across his neck, and as he disrobes further, he also notices a few scattered around his body. Plagued with curiosity, the man peers into the mirror, ignoring his unkempt appearance, and pulls down the neck bandage. He sees what looks like the early stages of scarring, dusted with reds and purples, when any normal person would still have a clear cut. The bandage is fixed, moved back into place, and the shower is run hot.

It feels like relief. It feels like home.

He sleeps early that night. 


End file.
